


I Stand So Instructed

by Dichotomous_Dragon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 6 has some drowning, Adoribull - Freeform, Adoribull Prompt Sunday, Chap 2 - sparring, Gen, M/M, Oral Sex, ch 7 has a smol smut, chap 3 - not good for the claustrophobic, chap 5&6 are H/C, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Tumblr/Adoribull Prompt Sunday fills</p>
<p>4 - Stuck on the elevator! :3<br/>5- Yellow and Black, Dorian gets attacked<br/>6 - CPR on the Storm Coast<br/>7 - Cracky office AU (sequel to Ch4)(NSFW at the end)<br/>8 - Dorian and Bull meet...under less than ideal circumstances<br/>9 - A Persistent Nightmare<br/>10 - The Visiting Magister</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing the Point

**Missing the Point**

Drifting through nonsensical visions, Dorian was deeply asleep. Months of camping in the Maker-forsaken wilderness has done something for his waking reflexes, never fully formed before that from too many years of sleeping in comfortable beds. His flight from home had forced the transformation, required him to gain the ability to move from sound asleep to fighting in an instant.

So, when the door to their...to _Bull's_ room creaked open with its usual metallic groan, Dorian surfaced enough to feign a snore, kicking at the blankets as though he were fidgeting in his sleep. The motion freed his arms in case he had need of them, even as he kept up his deep, even breathing.

The breeze from the motion of the door closing brought with it a smell Dorian complained about only ironically, lately. The scent of weapon oil and the earthy musk of the Bull all around him was too comforting, too familiar a sensation to merit Dorian opening his eyes at whatever ungodly hour it was; he settled instead for a deep yawn and a slight twist of the spine before submerging himself in their blankets again. 

“You’re getting better at that, Kadan,” Bull chuckled. “I almost believed you were still out. The snore was a bit much.”

"It's about time you returned," Dorian mumbled, rather than respond to Bull’s backhanded compliment. The accusatory tone of the statement ruined by the pleased smile tugging at Dorian’s lips. He wiggled to get back into the warm spot he’d vacated, the comforter coiled around his head. "This room is unacceptably chill without you." The Bull's answering laugh was absolutely _not_ endearing (a Pavus was never laughed at, not by anyone who wished to keep their squishier bits intact, anyway.) The little flare of warmth through his chest was remarkably placating, however, and Dorian deigned to allow the Bull a pass...this time. From the proximity of the thunks and thuds and the metallic clang of Bull's brace he was moving about the room putting his things away and undressing.

"Sorry 'bout that, you know how the boss gets." Dorian hummed a sleepy noise as the bed dipped beneath Bull's weight, wriggling himself over to one side so the larger man had room to lie down. As soon as Bull settled Dorian rolled onto his side to assume their normal position: Bull on his back, Dorian curled up beside him and appropriating Bull's considerable bicep to use as a pillow. The surprise of a big hand rolling him over to face the opposite direction was almost enough to get Dorian's eyes open. As it was his nose crinkled in confusion and triggered another thunder-deep laugh from the Bull. "Peace, Kadan, go back to sleep." Dorian huffed, contemplating a sassy retort. The feel of the Bull's chest, the broad expanse of muscle contoured against his back and his arms bracketed by Bull's own, though, made for a convincing argument to return to sleep. Warm and content and conscious just long enough to feel lips press to his hair, Dorian fell back into the Fade.  
\-------

He woke alone, the bed still warm from the two of them sleeping. Dorian rolled to his back, body spread out in an indulgent stretch, as he thought fondly of descending back to unconsciousness, sleeping on his side, warm arms around him.

 _Around him._ Not beneath his head, as per their usual, but wrapped around him like a lover's....well. Like the embracing they occasionally did while standing, such as it was.

Dorian's eyes snapped open.

Bull was across the room, placing something into the bureau. Dorian’s next breath sucked in as a hiss; electricity crackled at his fingertips. The problem was obvious, a glaring omission of the horns that were at _least_ one-half the Bull’s namesake. He looked oddly small without them, broad shoulders seemingly out of balance with his ears. There was no sign of wounds, no blood nor bandages, but surely--

" _Vishante kaffas_! Bull...!" Dorian choked back the words, forcing them down like bad alcohol. His hand twitched in the space between them, drawn up short from the reflexive reach towards Bull, who stood observing Dorian through the reflection of the mirror. Dorian knew his lover would have already seen the concern on his face but he quashed the expression beneath a calmer one instead. He wanted to exclaim-- _What happened? Where are your horns? Maker you don't look like **you**_ \--but instead he whispered, fingers curling. "Amatus, are you alright?"

The Bull's eye widened in surprise, a flash of emotion before his face softened a moment later.

"I'm fine, Kadan." The gruffness in his tone was buffered to something deeper by fondness. "Happens every couple of years, they'll grow back." He turned around to face Dorian properly, advancing back towards the bed.

“Grow back?” The tilt to his head still read ‘concerned,’ but Dorian’s ceaseless curiousity had flared up, stoked by Bull’s lack of duress. “Do they simply…?”

“Fall off? Yeah.” A massive shrug. “I’ll be without ‘em for a couple weeks, then they’ll be back and I’ll be horny as ever.” He didn’t keep the smirk off his face; he _did_ stop walking just far enough away from the bed that Dorian’s pillow projectile went wide and missed.

"Well, thank the Maker for that," Dorian murmured, ignoring the pun (he was being very accommodating this morning, _thank you_ ), and instead sliding off the mattress, dragging the covers along with him. He rose to the balls of his feet to meet Bull's grinning lips with his own, "I simply cannot be expected to stretch to such heights without leverage forever." Bull laughed. Dorian tugged on one of his ears to get the great oaf to lower his head for a second kiss. 

A barely passable substitution, frankly.


	2. Sepelire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Krem/the Chargers give Dorian the shovel talk

A gauntleted hand came down on his shoulder. Dorian startled visibly, eyes darting around the courtyard over the edge of his book as he swallowed down a swear. The only person to be seen was Krem, looming over the bench Dorian was seated upon with his arms folded across his chest. There was no one else about but he and the Soporatus. Krem didn't want whatever he had to say to be overheard, apparently.

Worrisome.

"Altus." It was impressive, that the man could make the single word so laden with meaning.

"Good afternoon Cremisius,” Dorian turned a page, smoothing ruffled feathers. “I see you’ve appeared to have shucked your keeper. Does Bull know you’ve wandered off? He’ll be ever so worried to have lost one of his ducklings.” Krem snorted.

“The chief is out, you’re the one I’m after.” Word choice, Dorian thought smartly and was smarter still to keep it in his head. “You spar?” That got an arch of an eyebrow in return from Dorian.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you spar?” Krem tried again, this time through a sneer and in Tevene, “-or would dirtying your nails be too frightening for you?”

A smirk twisted Dorian’s lips up even as his long fingers snapped the book closed. Oh, this was a dangerous gambit indeed. Dorian’s mouth was moving before his brain caught up, still hooked on trying to puzzle through why Krem was addressing him at all.

“To the ring then?”

 

Being smashed into repeatedly by someone the Iron Bull’s size had paid off for his lieutenant, making him far more nimble in plate armor than Dorian would have anticipated. The Bull’s influence showed in Krem’s deliberate strikes, his footwork, and, most simply, in the frankly preposterous size of the maul he was wielding. Dorian found himself quickening the speed of the muted spells leaving his staff, thickening his barrier just in case Krem were to surprise him further. 

They’d begun slowly, getting a feel for the ring and each other, sparing no words save the rules of engagement. Dorian had laid a barrier on them both and so it went. It wasn’t until Krem had closed distance enough to make Dorian retreat that Dorian learned the true reason for the martial foreplay.

“So,” and wasn’t it unfair, that Krem was hardly panting despite swinging his comically large weapon at Dorian’s face, “-about you and the chief.” The crackle of electricity glancing off of Krem’s armor rippled across the courtyard at the same time as Dorian’s bark of laughter.

“Truly? You’re going to do this _**here?**_ ” Dorian floundered slightly, not quite sure where Krem was going with his insinuations. They’d started to gather an audience as well, a few unoccupied soldiers that had drifted over to watch.

“S’good a place as any,” Krem remarked, charging with such force Dorian had to manifest a second barrier to stop him after the first, a hasty wall of ice, shattered. Dorian swore and spun to the side, forcing a flashfire into his wake to drive Krem back. Krem blinked rapidly and smirked, merrily dodging projectiles as he gave chase. “Figured we’d better talk before you get in too deep.” Dorian was torn equally by the urge to ignore the unsettling topic of Krem’s comment, and to groan at the terrible pun, so reminiscent of the Bull that it made Dorian’s cheek twitch.

“Worried after his maidenly sensibilities, are you?” Dorian jabbed. Krem was close enough to Dorian that he saw the shorter man’s expression twist into something slightly sour. His voice dropped lower, their attacks mostly pantomiming now. The soldier intent and the mage, ensnared.

"We hear the things you call him. Beast. Savage. Brute. You think we don't take that personally?" _We_ , not I, and wasn’t that strange.

“Much the same things you call him.” But Krem shook his head.

“Not the same. We’re his men, not the pretty Altus gobbling his--” That was quite enough of that. 

"I don't see what business it is of yours," Dorian’s fireball was a touch warmer than strictly necessary. Krem batted the orb away and stalked closer, lips open in a full scowl now.

"Of course _you wouldn't_ ," Krem’s voice was heavy but quiet, "-because family shit is not really your strong suit." Many weeks of tense-but-good-natured-mutual-teasing fell away at the words and Dorian's walls came back up so fast it was chilling. Literally so, as he let the wave of ire push outward with a blast of arctic air that forced Krem back several steps. Krem wasn't finished, adding: "-It's not mine either, obviously, or wasn't. Before I met the Chief and the rest of these assholes, anyway.” Dorian’s anger snagged on Krem’s tone, on the intent he could not quite pinpoint. “Point is," and with that Krem drew himself up, lowering his maul to waist level "-that's my family you're calling all that shit. The chief? He's thick-skinned alright, and he's as hard-headed as they come, but under all that, he’s ours." Krem thrust his chin to indicate the audience they’d gathered, all standing haphazardly around the ring. Soldiers, as Dorian had much expected, except…

He kept the surprise off of his face, but only just.

Ever person standing around the ring, to the last, was a Charger. He picked up those names and faces he knew. Dalish waved as his eyes raked past her; Skinner scowled. Grim and Rocky both inclined their heads to him; Stitches, somewhat hilariously, glowered and cracked his knuckles. The remaining two dozen were part of the company, usually afield, but were still far from strangers. 

Right. Back to showmanship it was, then, properly behind walls of arrogance and falsehoods he should have drawn up properly before they’d begun. Dorian drew his broad shoulders back, forcing Krem to move with a well placed fireball, summoned without so much as a blink. The dance resumed, the two of them dipping and striking at one another to the melody of magic and metal.

After a sequence that left Krem near the edge of the ring and nursing a singed hand, Dorian’s indignation at the manner of Krem’s questioning caught up with him. Lighting fluttered over his fingertips and down the grip of his staff to fan out around his feet, burning the dust underfoot into the shatter-glass pattern of splintering ice.

“I must have done something awfully frightful to merit the entire brood turning out like this,” Dorian proposed, tone light. Krem’s rather keen nose caught the whiff of impending bullshit and his eyes narrowed. “You shall have to inform me so I can endeavor to avoid a repeat performance.” He paused dramatically for effect, giving Krem the opening. He didn’t take it. “Come now, don’t be shy. Was it the fact that I ate my last meal in the tavern with proper silverware?” Electricity crackled all along his staff now and warped the around him into distorted patterns. Dorian dropped the pretense by asking outright. “Don’t tell me this delightful intervention came about simply because I was foolish enough to ‘ride the Bull,’ as he so charmingly puts it.”

“Cute.” Krem replied further with a low sweep of the maul right at Dorian’s kneecaps that broke his advance and forced him to dodge back. “I can see why the chief likes stuffing that mouth of yours, probably the only way he gets any peace.” That got a flash of red into Dorian’s cheeks and vision; fire sprung up in a wall a eight feet high, all of the flare but none of the destructive, searing heat. Krem snarled a “Kaffas,” and stumbled only be forced into a defensive roll as Dorian’s staff sliced through the space his head had been occupying a beat before. 

Dorian stepped through the flames and they lathed around him, waiting until the last billow of his robes passed through them before fading to nothing. "Whatever makes you think there is anything special about our tryst anyway?" It was meant to sound haughty--likely did, to most. Something bitter twanged in his chest, a note played inappropriately sharp. Even as the words left his lips Dorian knew they were the wrong ones.

“ _Maybe there isn’t, to you_ ,” Krem fired back, slipping into Tevene again as he got a knee underneath him. He slammed his maul to earth in a burst of dust, launching himself at Dorian from the ground, a wildcat pouncing “ _-and maybe not to him, either. I’m just telling you, Dorian, in case you don’t know_ ,” and really, being Tevinter and in their respective situations, it was very possible neither of them _did_ know, and yet here Krem lunged forward, far faster than he had a right to be while Dorian, mind whirring, was a step too slow. Krem seized a fist full of leather and silk and pulled Dorian’s face down inches from his own as he growled: “ _If you hurt him, we will make you regret it. We don’t tolerate people fucking with our family_.”

It hit Dorian then, the truth of what Krem and the rest of Bull’s merry little band of savages was doing. The fire that had gathered in his palms blinked out as the retort on his tongue fell to ash. Instead, against all instinct and training to the contrary, he waited.

“We clear?” Krem asked. Dorian nodded once, curtly, and held himself still until he felt Krem’s iron-tight grip loosen. “Good.” With a smile as sweet as spun sugar, Dorian met Krem’s eye and pulsed his aura once, hard. The shockwave deposited Krem a good five back and flat on his arse in the ring. The roaring laughter of the Chargers assembled around them made the moment all the sweeter.

Dorian was a little surprised to realize that they were, in fact, good.

“ _What of the run-of-the-mill fucking, then_?” He asked in Tevene, lip quirking on one side as he nonchalantly smoothed the front of his robes. It was not easy to say aloud, even now, but he relished the overloud snort Krem loosed in response. The Soporatus did grin up at Dorian’s offered hand before accepting the help back to his feet.

“Don’t want to know what you get up to behind closed doors, Altus.” Dorian bowed gallantly as Krem straightened.

“I shall endeavor to scar you at every opportunity then,” but the speech was ruined by Krem’s shoulder thumping hard into his own. "It's probable that this was the worst shovel talk in the history of such things. You know this, yes?"

“ _Eat me_ ," Krem grinned, and Dorian could not help but laugh.


	3. Buried Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adoribull Sunday Prompt: Dorian has a flashback to the time he was abducted from his lovers bed at a crucial moment.
> 
> or, Dorian gets buried alive and saves his goddamn self, thank you. (Because somehow, THAT'S where this prompt led me...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TheRevoltion over on Tumblr

There was a thinness to the air that hauled Dorian out of the comfortable blankness behind his eyelids. He groaned and felt his head swim at the effort of speaking, body reeling as though there were a bronto on his chest and a case of liquor in his blood. The oppressive black shroud of sleep held no sway to the absolute darkness he found when he opened his eyes, however, and the lack of any stimuli was odd indeed. No light nor movement. No sound but his own breathing and the slight creak to his leathers as he shifted.

Confusion was next.

That smell...he knew that smell. The heavy odor of damp earth with a hint of fresh-cut wood beneath, offset by the slightly stale scent of his own panting breaths. Beyond that? Nothing. He shifted through his thoughts, coherency flowing away from him like water through a sieve.

There! Angry men in the tavern when he’d gone down for a nightcap. There was an echo, a memory of words just before the darkness had swallowed him, before.

_He’s a necromancer right? Put him with his favorites. Keeps him the fuck away from the rest of us._

Dorian lifted his hands to find he only had a few inches of room to move. Bare wood under his fingers didn’t flex at all when he pushed. Pounding yielded nothing but dull, unsatisfying thuds, as though a great weight pressed back against the side opposite and muffled his attempts to be heard.

Understanding, then, and molten fear immediately behind.

_Buried._ He knew it to be true even as every fiber of his being pleaded for the opposite. They’d buried him in a box, shovelled the sodden dirt on top of him until there was no sign save the disturbance in the grass itself. 

The others were likely still asleep, unaware he was even missing, and that meant he was on his own again. Cool logic tried to take over and Dorian knew he couldn’t scream, couldn’t panic, couldn’t hyperventilate without killing himself faster.

Telling himself not to panic, surprisingly, did not help much. He did not shriek or sob but could not stopped the fevered digging of his hands, trying to force his way free of his prison. The headroom of a handful of inches felt like none at all, rationality crushed beneath the horrifying realization that he had minutes, at best; the weight of several feet of damp, heavy soil crushed down on his chest even though the lid to his coffin held fast, smothering him as the metallic tang of fresh blood brought bile to his tongue.

All his frantic clawing at the rough, unyielding wood got him nothing but sore fingers and shaking hands, his half-sleeve damp with his blood. He didn’t need to see to know there was a crimson trail rolling down his skin to his elbows, pooling finally in the pits beneath his arms. 

 

He thought, of all things, of Magister Abrexius’s son.

Not Devon himself, per se, but their evening of frivolity that ended in Dorian being dragged bodily back to his parents' estate in a collar, bleeding in three places and fresh from murdering several strangers, as well as raising a dozen corpses from the family graveyard 

_Devon was leaner than Dorian, more wispy, narrower at the hip and built like a tumbler. He moved like one too, writhing beneath Dorian as he climaxed, whispering curses under his breath like a litany. Devon's legs were stretched up Dorian's chest; Dorian grabbed the slim thighs and hurried his pace as Devon clenched around him. Warmth pooled in his belly and Dorian's breathing stuttered, close, so close...he let his eyelids flutter shut--_

__The sound of the door being kicked in jolted Dorian from his reverie like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on his sweat-slick skin, Devon loosing a frightened, strangled noise as rough hands dragged Dorian away from him._ _

_Fear._

_Yes, Dorian was plenty afraid. He forced himself to take smaller breaths and hold them longer, and he kept his eyes closed. There was nothing to see in the pitch blackness of his would-be tomb. The air felt thick even as the waning oxygen sewed ragged stitches into his lungs._

__Dorian thrashed and struggled, kicking his way free of two of the men only to be grabbed by the third as he was hauled bodily out the estate’s back entrance. A carriage waited nearby, looming and convenient. Fire flashed from his fingertips and consumed one the soldiers lunging to join the one dragging him and Dorian panicked, seeing a wide leather band in the hand of the nearest man._ _

If he was lucky, his attackers had buried him near the rest of their dead and he’d be able to...well. Do something other than die quietly in a rickety wooden box, forced from the world of the living by attackers too foolish to stunt his most powerful weapon even as they condemned him for what he was. 

_”Filthy mage,” one of the mercenaries snarled. The jagged edge on the manacle he’d gotten on one of Dorian’s wrists sliced deeply enough for him to bleed in earnest. Panicked, Dorian threw his power out, reaching in tendrils for anything to help him. He had meant to grab the bodies of the men he hadn’t meant to slay, use them to defend him against their brethren as they hit him and snarled slurs under their breath, dragging him all the while towards the carriage._

_He got far more help than he’d planned on, even if it hadn’t been enough._

Another echo, then, and the two scenes molded into one. The epithets were different but the superficial judgements amounted to the same thing: shame on him, for being what he was. Woe on him for not hiding, for being powerful and clever and passionate, and not being ashamed.

_“Filthy, godless wretch.”_ Spoken like a truth and a condemnation all at once. A judgment, an assumption, and a death sentence, all from men who assumed themselves his betters.

Ah, finally. _There_ was the anger.

Dorian exhaled and a lifetime’s worth of ill regard redirected into his wellspring of power, gases lit aflame by his own resounding refusal. The earth shuddered, shaking, aquiver as Dorian forced his mana out into the surrounding ground, rippling from his shaking form in waves. The effort made his limbs quake, resonating with the dirt outside his coffin as the spell found places in which to anchor.

Above him, around him, skeletal hands dragged themselves free from what was supposed to be their final rest. His focus gave the long-dead life again, his power filling in the missing spaces where flesh had long since fallen away. He felt them awaken, heard their submission as an echo of his anger. His will gave them power; his intent would give them purpose.

_To me._

Dorian let his arms drop to his sides and waited. He could not dig himself free, not with his own hands, but then, he didn’t need to. Shouldn’t need to. His magic was all he had, his only chance.

Thankfully, spirits in the bodies of the fallen could do things that flesh and blood creatures could not.

Fear ebbed to quiet resolution.

He had done what he could, his head screaming under the strain of raising so many at once and for a long while, it was just his small panting breaths in the quiet again. The hum of his magic was only in his head, rapidly draining his reserves. The sounds he wanted to hear--

\--began to come, arrhythmic and uneven but **there** as his summoned saviors dug away at the earth above him. It took time, too much time, took so long Dorian could feel himself growing dizzy and nauseous as the scraping of claw-like hands grew louder. It could have been the lack of air, or the amount of mana he was burning.

It hardly mattered.

The digging sounds through the lid changed, growing louder and closer and less coordinated. He pounded on the coffin and was rewarded with loud, hollow pounding sounds for his effort. Intent shifting one final time Dorian gave the order and as one, his army grasped the top of his tomb and pulled. The wood shattered under the unnatural force, rain and mud and earth falling onto his face even as Dorian dragged his body upright. Air flooded into his lungs and he coughed, smelling the sickening sweetness of his power on the breezeless air.

Relief and exhaustion in equal measure, then.

Dorian crawled out of the hole--out of his grave--and collapsed to the ground as the spirits abandoned the bodies he’d woken up, flashes of lavender light twinkling like stars in the twilight and the rain.

“Dorian! Dorian--no, over here, I’ve found him!” The voice was Cassandra’s and he could tell from the shift in her tone she’d drawn up short, halting her approach. He heard her sword slide free of its sheathe and wondered, blearily, why. 

He smelled copper, felt the throbbing of pain in his hands, and understood. The blood, of course she saw only the blood.

"-did you...?!?” A question and accusation both. Collapsed on his knees and leggings soaked through, Dorian didn’t have the energy to answer her; he shook his head, as much a denial as a disbelief that he had to explain himself. _Did she...could she not see?_ The pit beside him, the rough-hewn holes the corpses had left...no, perhaps she _did_ see, and did not know how strong he was. He held up instead his shredded fingertips as evidence, vision tunneling at the minute gesture.

Clouding numbness, and a small ache in his heart that was very familiar indeed.

There was a sound of heavy footfalls and then Bull's huge hands were on his cheeks, encouraging Dorian to lift his eyes. He did, but the depth of emotion broadcast back at him in the Bull's solitary gaze hit him like a bolt of lightning, the big man’s emotions broadcast in small declaratives.

_Worry._

_Relief._

_Affection._

There was more, too much of it to process. Dorian shivered more pointedly--not unpleasantly, a first for the day--and tucked his chin back down, crumpling in on himself. Bull didn't let him, mirroring Dorian’s motion and countering it by sliding his heavy arms around him, under Dorian’s knees and behind his shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” the words were a promise, mumbled against his hair as Dorian slipped into sleep. “I’ve got you.”


	4. Going Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adoribull Sunday Prompt: [Modern Setting] Dorian sees Bull heading towards the elevator he is currently in and starts to repeatedly hit the "door close" button. Bull makes it in time and to take his revenge, pushes all the buttons for the other floors. :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lackadaisical-Lass!  
> Shout-out to Cyber-Fairie for yet again reading my unfinished nonsense

_Vishante kaffas._

A large horned figure that he recognized all too well was coming down the hall of the office building with purpose. Headed directly for the rapidly closing door on the elevator Dorian himself was currently occupying, it so happened. Swearing blackly under his breath he shifted the large stack of books into his right arm, smashing the "close" button for all he was worth.

He couldn't be alone in an elevator. Not with _him_. Of course the Bull’s massive hand slipped in between the closing doors at the last, narrowly forcing them to reopen.

“Lucky I caught that,” the big man grinned; Dorian suppressed the urge to groan aloud as the hulking grey figure entered the small space and proceeded to press one thick finger to every floor’s button once inside.

"We are on the _thirty-second floor,_ Bull!" Dorian hissed, feeling crimson creep up his neck when the brute grinned back at him.

"They don't call it 'Skyhold' for nothing, huh?" That smirk needed to be seared off with fire, Dorian was sure of it. "I haven't seen you around in weeks. Not since you left your silky-"

"Ugh." There was the trademark lack of discretion. Dorian sighed internally. He _really_ should have known better. The door slid open beside them, ‘31st Floor’ lit merrily on the small display; no one joined them. Dorian was unsure whether he should be pleased or upset about that before realizing that Bull would likely say his piece regardless of the bystanders they did or did not have.

Right. 

"The building is rather large,” he deflected, shuffling the books in his arms for a better grip, “-and I am terribly busy.”

“Kinda sad though,” the Bull took a step forward and Dorian froze, his need to fidget stalled by the intent look and Bull bearing down on him. How did any thinking creature on two legs get so Maker-damned _large?_ “See, I had a really nice time with this really hot ‘Vint a few weeks ago and right afterward, he made himself scarce. Here I thought we'd hit it off enough for at least a second go-round, tough for my ego to handle being wrong about something like.” Bull inched closer, pressing but not menacing. "'Cuz this 'Vint was _really_ hot, Dorian."

What had been tension melted smoothly into irritation warring with the flare of desire, hot in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes, I am sure a grand time was had by all,” he would’ve dramatically fluttered a hand had they not been full.

“‘Could have a grand time again,” the Bull’s voice was layered with meaning and promise, decadent and tempting, taunting Dorian with what he could not have. 

Dorian’s temper flared hotly. “You may cease your lackluster attempts at flirting, you tactless lummox.” Bull shrugged and gave one of his slow, deliberate blinks.

“Didn’t hear you complaining about it when--”

“Yes yes,” Dorian snapped, volume rising. He barely noticed as the doors opened and closed on another floor. “We had our fling, it’s over and done with!”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Bull replied, as though that were any sort of answer. As though it were _possible._ As though it were...

"Are you joking? Do you know what would happen if my father...if our colleagues found out that I am fucking _you_!?" Dorian roared, voice edging on the south side of hysteria, just as the elevator door made its trademark _BING_ and slid open. A man a woman stared in at them, eyes wide in their faces; Dorian made an exasperated noise and blushed crimson, shoving past Bull to push the 'close' button with the corner of one of the books. Once it was safely closed and lurching downward he rounded on Bull again.

“That what it is, then?” Bull’s tone was bland, the very antithesis to Dorian’s outburst. Startled by the change Dorian glanced up to find the hint of teasing was gone from the rugged face, normally expressive features conspicuously blank. It was jarring. “You’re ashamed of...what we did?” 

Dorian heard it, heard the little word Bull had meant to say instead of ‘what we did,’ and anger snapped through him like a whip.

“Of _course_ not, you insufferable lout! Don't you see?" He growled, chin lifting defiantly even as his heart gave a mortified stutter-step in his chest. He did not want anyone to think him ashamed of them, knowing all too well what that felt like, least of all... “My father would ruin your name at the threat of rumors alone. Once the other stockholders heard you’d been foolish enough to fall in league with the wicked magister?” Dorian shook his head, a physical dismissal of the political fallout Bull would suffer for deigning to associate with him. “It would be a disaster. You have a company of men and women depending on you, Bull. If it were simply a carnal matter--” and he stopped, shaking his head again, a different crest of emotions at war in his chest.

Just thinking about the Bull made him want to shiver. The endless musculature cushioned so perfectly around his belly and thighs, masculine and alive. The handsome features, as rugged as though they were hewn from rock and yet somehow, the Bull had looked at him more softly than any man Dorian had been with. The memory of those hands, the feel of him, made Dorian’s mouth go instantly dry. He cleared his throat and pressed past it, noticing the Bull’s expression had shifted to that strange softness as he rambled. “Yes, right. As I said, it is not so simple. Best we just leave it as it is and go back to being blissfully unaware of one another’s existence.” He didn’t know when his eyes had drifted down to Bull’s collarbone but thankfully it kept him from having to see whatever expression had taken over. Dorian wasn’t sure if it would be acceptance, or anger, or worse, that blas blank stare from a moment before.

He was having a hard time with indecision today, he realized. The elevator bing’ed.

“Dorian, look at me.” A rough palm cupped under his chin and against his better judgement, Dorian met Bull’s gaze. The man was smiling again, scarred mouth twisting Dorian's stomach into knots. 

"It isn't you," Dorian said again, all too bare. The Bull nodded.

"I get that now. Hard to know that when you run off in the middle of the night and hide for three weeks.” Bull dipped his head and pressed his lips to Dorian’s, sliding his free hand under the pile of books just before Dorian’s melting would have toppled them. The mage blushed furiously, feeling the other man’s grin against his mouth until Bull pulled back. “How about we find somewhere nice and quiet to grab a bite and we’ll see where we end up?”

“Did you not hear a single word I’ve--” a second kiss, longer this time, had Dorian sighing into Bull’s parted lips. They passed three more floors before Dorian ruefully came up for air, resignation on his face and a dusting of crimson still darkening his cheeks. “Oh, _very well then._ Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


	5. Yellow and Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bees! Also other things.  
> (Spoiler: not bees.)  
> ((Other Spoiler: it might be Dorian meeting with a less-than-friendly critter.))

The Emerald Graves had been oppressively humid for days on end, air so laden with moisture it was palpable. Olfactorily relevant, too, as between the sweat of hiking for hours and the near one-hundred percent humidity none of them smelled particularly pleasant. It was beautiful in a wild sort of way, flora and fauna aggressively naturalizing everything in sight. Even the paths fresh-carved by Inquisition scouts seemed to be pressing against them.

It was lovely from afar. Up close--and really, there was nothing but--it made Dorian's skin crawl a little and his allergies act up, tongue drying out from want of even the most substandard wine a tavern could offer. He allowed himself a witful sigh and carried on, Evelyn out in front of him and the Bull and Sera behind. The two of them had been chattering for an hour.

"But seriously Sera," Bull's voice was an amused, inquisitive rumble, "...again with the bees? What the hell did Cullen do to piss you off?”

"S'not _for_ him," Sera scoffed, twirling an arrow idly between long fingers, smacking at hanging vines with the fletching as she went. "One of his tinmen's being a real cock to one of the scullery maids, always pinching her arse when he passes her. So I figured the bees can give him a lil’ pinch back, you know? Or sting, whatever. I tried earwigs,” she added, face crumpling into a serious frown. “Turns out their pinchy butts don’t actually pinch. Right tits, that.”

Bull nodded sagely in reply while Dorian was suddenly grateful Sera couldn’t see the fond grin on his face as he coughed to hide his laugh.

“S’like, why bother with pinchies if they don’t actually work?” 

“Camouflage,” Bull answered as Dorian skirted a huge rock, grumbling as he was forced to leave the trail and step into knee-deep undergrowth to do so. “Hiding in plain sight, warding off enemies with the way you look, not necessarily the things you can do." Dorian didn't need to look to pick up on Sera's understanding. Her tone told him more than enough.

"Ooooooh, camouflage," when Sera said it the word grew into a caricature of itself, the 'moo' sound she inserted drawing an ungentlemanly snort out of Bull. "Like what you do, Beefcheeks? Looking all muscle-y and _phwoar_ even when you're _really_ all about drinking and lovin pink and and bedding poncy mages?" The blood rushed to Dorian's cheeks so fast he didn't even have the time to turn around and glare. By the time he did he was flushed from his chin to his hairline. He also lost all of his carefully cultured disdain when, mid-spin, a branch whapped him straight in the face. Sera was staring straight at him and grinning, hands still raised in an emulation of Bull's horns. "Well, maybe just the one poncy mage, eh Magebits?"

The Bull's laughter was loud as Dorian sputtered and stumbled back, one hand on his nose and the other grasping for a handhold in the foliage. And if the motion hid his flaming red skin then--

“ _Kaffas!_ ”

"What it it, Dorian?"

Instinct reigned and a flash of gold lit the air, Haste dragging time to a crawl. Dorian glared down at the serpent still dangling from his forearm, bands of vivid obsidian and lemon yellow across its V-shaped head. Even with the effects of his focus he could feel the sharp sting spreading, a fierce burn. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. Just as quickly the creature was gone, one bite enough to do its job.

Yellow on black will kill you, Jack. It rolled off the tongue differently in Trade than in Tevene but the point still stands, if the searing heat of the venom through his veins was any indication.

He took a few more steps forward, waiting for the right moment, watching the flash of pattern through the shadows. Waiting, waiting…he lunged, stabbing the snake through the neck with the blade on his staff. The surge of motion made his head swim and Dorian staggered as he watched it thrashed wildly on the trail, body twining in tight corkscrews as its mouth opened and closed from lingering reflex. He felt bodies crowding up behind him even as he took a step back, vision tunneling from the dense greenery to blackness.

“Watch out,” Dorian warned. He didn't hear his slurring nor notice the sudden thickness in his tongue. "The head can still bite during its death throes. Nasty business, being bitten by a creature that's already dead."

He didn't hear Sera swearing but he did, somehow, hear the Bull call his name just the once.  
\---

Dorian woke (a day and a half later, unbeknownst to him) feeling like the whole of the Hissing Wastes had taken up residence on his tongue. After several bleary blinks he ascertained he was in a tent, on a cot, and as was as previously noted, actively dying of thirst. He tried to reach for a nearby waterskin and was rewarded with searing pain: the arm attached to his dominant hand felt like it was aflame, a fire rune laid beneath his skin that flared white hot whenever he moved. His gasp of pain, by comparison, was wholly unsatisfactory. More of a croak, really, but it was enough to get the flap at the front of the tent torn open in a hurry. All he could make out past the white-washing glare of sunlight was a blonde head poking in before he heard:

“OY! He’s awake!” Fabric rustled and colorful, flagrant swearing colored the air as Sera hurried inside only to crack her head on the heavy pole holding the tent up. “Shitestomping _piss_ that stings! Assfucking nature shite…” she trailed off as though nothing had happened, dropping to her knees at Dorian’s side with one hand still clutching the bump on her forehead. “Ey there Magebits, how you feeling?” If you had suggested to Dorian that Sera was capable of an Inside Voice just moments after searing the Maker’s eardrums with her profanity any time prior, he’d have laughed. Presently, the shift in demeanor warmed his chest in rather different fashion than his right arm was doing. Skinny fingers brushed hair off his forehead. “You in there? I can see you lookin’ at me.”

The laugh Dorian barked was more rasp than anything. “Rather...parched, as it stands,” he managed. Sera swore quietly and fumbled for the waterskin until she realized, rather belatedly, that it was easier to uncork with both hands. Scooping her left arm under his shoulders she helped him into a half-sit and tipped the skin to his lips. Her arms shook a bit with the strain of his weight but she held him ‘til he was done, and helped him lie flat again. “Most gracious of you,” Dorian offered, only to be cut off with a snort.

“Whelp, you’re fine. Not awake for five minutes and already with the fancy words.” Her smile was wide with relief as she offered it, though, and Dorian returned it with a lopsided smirk of his own. She shook her head and rose. “Bollocks, you’re heavy. Oy, Beefcheeks?” she called towards the outside world. “I think he’s been lazing about on us.”

“That so?” a gravelly voice asked from beyond the tent flap. Sera tugged it open and passed outside and at her departure, the light from outside was quickly blotted out by a sizable frame.

“ _Graciously parched_ already, so, yeah, I’d say so. Unless the words wake up faster than the rest of him. Many as he’s got, they might. Hey, Inky....” Bull’s chuckle and the closing of the tent flap lost the rest of Sera’s prattling as the qunari lowered himself onto the cot beside Dorian’s. Dorian shifted a little to settle himself and finally, after several long moments, cleared his throat.

“I am by no means lazing about,” he offered, tipping his chin up just so, “-and I’ll have you know I find the insinuation offensive.” Bull smirked but the look was a bit pinched. He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, appraising and remaining quiet. Awake less than five minutes and the lummox was already driving him to distraction. He swallowed around a lump in his throat and failed to hide his concern behind more frippery. “What is it, Bull? ...Are you alright?”

“Gave us a bit of a scare, ‘Vint,” came the rumbling reply. Dorian felt ravaged fingers twining with his own and allowed it, savoring the familiarity of the scarred skin pressed to his own.

“Come now, surely it was not so dramatic as all that,” it was easiest that way; after all, he was fine, was he not? “You have been spending too much time with Sera in my absence, I see. We shall have to remedy that immediately with a generous dose of yours truly.”

“Soon as you can get your sparkly ass up, yeah, why not,” Bull groused. The corner of his good eye crinkled, though, and gave him away. Dorian reclined more deeply into his pillow and gave the Bull’s fingers a squeeze.

“No reason to wait for that,” he argued. Bull apparently agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little rhymelet Dorian cites is based on the way to tell a coral snake from a milk snake (deadly and harmless, respectively) but the actual line on the banding is 'Red on Yellow will Kill a Fellow; but Red on Black is a Friend of Jack.'  
> Interestingly, coral snakes lack the angry V-shaped head of most venomous snakes. They look harmless (hence the rhyme) and resemble Colubrids like milk, garter, and corn snakes. Because they lack the venom pockets (that give things like rattlesnakes their distinctive V-shaped head), they can't just strike and release: they have to bite and hold on, basically chewing, to inject their venom into their prey. To quote Mike Rowe, "I can understand the biting, but the _chewing?!_ "
> 
> The chewing didn't work for the fic and neither did the rhyme but hey, I learned a thing.
> 
> Come yell at me over on [Tumblr](http://www.dichotomous-dragon.tumblr.com/), and thanks for reading!


	6. CPR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull has to deal with a difficult thing and Dorian has to deal with the harbinger of the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Little_Miss_Scar's prompt over on Tumblr:
> 
> Adoribull Prompt Sunday: CPR? Bull administers CPR to Dorian after he drowns at the Storm Coast? Bonus points for a few broken ribs?
> 
> ...YES, thank you, this is absolutely my jam. Also my biggest post to date <3

"Bull, when the dreadnaught sinks..." Evelyn's tone didn't waver, a testament to months of a war she hadn't signed up for.

"Sinks?" The Bull's tone was deadpan, "Qunari dreadnaughts don't sink." Dorian, several paces back, could hear the careful flatness in his tone. Blank as the vellum of the report he’d yet to start on this mission.

Behind them, pacing angrily, Gatt was snarling to himself, bright green eyes livid in his anger. He, too had fallen back from Bull when Evelyn had given the order, lingering concern still evident on her face.

"After all these years, he gives it all up, and for what? For _them_?!" Dorian swallowed the bile in his throat at that and did not hesitate on his response.

"He did. For his men. For his family." He couldn't stop himself from defending Bull's choice. They had not been...whatever they were for long, he and Bull, but a quiet part of Dorian selfishly assured him that Bull's devotion to his men meant he himself might be worth something, too. Beyond that they were brothers in arms, as it were, and maybe even friends...and Gatt’s condemnation was not something Dorian was in the mood to suffer. “He made his choice.”

Gatt's lips curled back, baring all his teeth. From his posture he was in no mood to suffer Dorian, either, neither for his heritage nor for his words. When he stepped toward Dorian he did it with tension in every lean muscle in his body, sinew as tightly coiled as a pit viper ready to strike.

"Filthy magister. I should have _known_ he was beyond help, keeping company with the likes of you and the rest of these _Bas_ ," Gatt seethed. Twin daggers materialized in his hands, drawn with purpose. "Does it please you, to know that you've ruined him? Cut him off from everything he is?"

"Everything he _was,_ perhaps," Dorian replied primly. He didn't raise his staff in anger--though it was a near thing. Instead he tightened his grip until his knuckles went white. Best not to antagonize the crazy elf too much, but... "He is The Iron Bull, now, as he has been."

"Tal-Vashoth, you mean," Gatt was still advancing, lips parted in a snarl, though when he spoke it was with a note of something softer and decidedly more wretched. Sadness? Disappointment? Dorian wondered at it until Gatt added quietly: "He'll be no better than a wild animal now."

"Believe what you will, elf." There was a fair dose of venom in his own voice now, echoing the warring relief and concern he felt for Bull into a reverberation of anger at Gatt's judgments. "Whatever the case, he is no longer a concern for you and your keepers." Better he be in the care of the people who cared about him, who---well, who shared his bed on occasion, and fought at his side. Better they than the faceless men who pulled the strings from Par Vollen, treating their loyal followers as nothing but tools to be honed and utilized for their whims.

An echoing explosion rocked the slick ground underfoot as the dreadnaught, laden with black powder, erupted into flames. Qunari or not, the blast heralded the death of several dozen men: a sizable blow, when said men had helped them kill the Venatori. As the ambient air soured with the presence of spirits departing their corporeal selves, Dorian couldn’t help his wince. The loss of that many lives in such close quarter never got any easier to bear. The viddithari seemed to recognize the same and he snapped under this final straw. 

With a growl of fury Gatt lunged for Dorian, knives flashing even as Dorian's staff blade swung up to parry. One of the daggers slipped through before Dorian’s barrier shimmered into existence, scoring a thin slice along the mage’s forearm. The rapid answering spin of the staff drove Gatt back a step; a warning pulse of electricity forced him back two more. Gatt’s eyes seethed hatred, his teeth bared, and even still Dorian was not certain he had it in him to kill the agent of the Qun. He wanted to, certainly. Was capable, without question. What would the Qunari do to Evelyn and Bull if he actually did it, though? 

The elf snarling as he lunged banished the thoughts entirely as Dorian fell into patterns of blocking and backing away, singeing Gatt only when his blades veered too close.

“Fight me, mage!” Gatt’s voice rose over the peal of thunder and the white noise of heavy rain. Another strike tore a red line across Dorian’s bicep. “Use your pathetic magic to save your sorry hide!”

" _Dorian!!_ " The frightened shout was Evelyn's, echoing to him from too far off. There was no time to do anything but parry each advance as Gatt's furious, sweeping attacks drove him further and further back. A particularly nasty lunge stuttered Dorian’s steps and Gatt’s face, vibrantly angry before, broke into an ugly smile instead. One hard reversal saw Dorian’s staff swung out too wide to allow him to block. Gatt pressed his advantage and attacked again.

Dorian cringed and stumbled, a brilliant flash of white silk and silverite stained ruddy as Gatt sunk a dagger into his side and shoved him roughly with the other hand. There was no shout, none of the colorful swearing in Tevene that usually accompanied him getting caught by a wayward blade in battle. Instead there was the quiet thud of Dorian’s staff falling to the ground and his boot heel lowering to nothing but open air. 

The icy grip of panic locked around him, silenced any reply worth making. Instead the moment allowed Dorian nothing but the time to witness Gatt's miserable face twisted into a triumphant sneer. Gatt was out of sight a blink later and the surge of fear took full control.

Dorian fell hearing the crash of waves, watching the bolt of images--of regrets, mostly--coursing behind his eyelids. It was odd, how long it took him to fall, an eternity held circumspectly in a breath. It gave him time to lament as he saw two faces over the lip of the cliff above and wondered, entirely offhand, if they were alright. If they were safe from that damnable elf and his comrades, and if they would miss him. 

Something unyielding caught Dorian none too lovingly, his back slamming into an outcropping of stone just shy of the water. He still made no noise--indeed, didn't have the breath to do anything at all, then-- and it was with that deathly, grim silence that Dorian sunk into the black, rolling waves of the sea.

Cold closed around him, holding him fast, arms and legs too heavy to move. His consciousness fled as the light did, inky water closing over his head.  
\------

A curious thing, ‘the end.’

If you'd asked him just after his back cracked against unforgiving rock, Dorian would have said something poetic, perhaps. ‘The end’ had been something like a quiet sigh after a burst of pain, silence sliding neatly into a cold, dark nothingness. A bit of descriptive prose that would've made Varric proud. 

‘The end’ was rapidly proving it was not nearly so final as it had seemed to be, thought Dorian, as a sledgehammer slammed into his chest. He wasn't...he just _wasn't_ , not right then. He was nothing but scattered listlessness being grounded by the cognition of the attack, brutal and bright. The smothering blankness of the Void was slipping away from him, ‘the end’ interrupted by the force of the blow. Blows, really, as the first was followed immediately by a second, and a third, and fourth. After the fifth, and on, Dorian knew he _was_ , but knew nothing else beyond the blows for a long while.

The slams smothered him, crumpled whatever was left of him like so much rusted debris. The power of his assailant crushed him into the ground, into what became distinguishable as a million small, sharp pebbles driven into his every inch as the hammer slammed him down. Body awareness flared, rekindled from the pain. His back, his head, his arms and legs ached with it, being trapped between the stone and the relentless blows, falling like drum beats. 

As Dorian realized he had a body still, he also realized said body was in peril. Blearily he thought they were trying to stop his heart, to keep him from breathing, to keep him from _being_ with those ceaseless attacks to the chest. Finally, finally, there was enough of Dorian to fear, to fight this new, looming end. ‘The end’ was a rapidly fading memory, the failed parting of an enemy lying slain; this new attempt to close him out, to force him under, would also fail.

Dorian tried to call a stop, to scream, to do _something_ as waking awareness surged back into him like mana after a lyrium draught, his lungs screaming for air while the rest of him laid silent under the blows. Dorian tried to flail, to shield himself, to beg for the hammer to stop. He managed a wet gurgling sound and no more.

Above him someone shrieked and blessedly, blissfully, the hammer beats stopped. Large hands grabbed at him, lifted and rolled him to his side; he couldn't thrash and he still couldn't breathe. The smothering force lessened as Dorian coughed violently, white-hot pain lancing through the foggy cognition he'd managed to regain and setting his chest and back alight with its fire. Salt water flooded out of his mouth and onto the sodden ground, burning the ragged tears in his throat. His eyes cracked open as a pair of smaller palms gently thumped against his back, freeing his airways as he choked and sputtered.

Emptiness. Finally, as he gasped, actual air flooded into Dorian's lungs. He nearly swooned at the resulting head rush, still coughing pathetically and draped in someone's arms. 

Evelyn's face swam into view as his vision wobbled, righting itself but for the blur caused by the pouring rain. Gentle hands brushed his sopping hair from his forehead, closing around his cheeks. He hadn't realized how cold he was until that moment, feeling Trevelyan's warm skin against his own. Dorian groaned as he started to shiver, the motion jarring a chorus of complaints from his body.

"Dorian? Dorian can you hear me?" Maker, was she _crying?_ Surely not. Surely it was the rain. He nodded, barely, and then Evelyn proved him wrong and outright _sobbed_ , releasing his face to clap her hands over her own mouth.

What…? he mouthed, but no sound came.

"I cast a barrier," Evelyn said quietly. "I was--it was very nearly too late. You almost drowned. You did drown." Her hands were in her lap now, fidgeting, clenching and tense. 

"Boss..." a deep voice chided gently. Dorian felt her draw further away and turned his head enough to see Evelyn moving towards her pack. She was scrubbing at her eyes and mumbling "Yes, yes, I know, I'm sorry."

Dorian’s eyes drifted upward to fall on the Bull, the owner of the overlarge hands and, currently, a very distant expression. He did manage a small smile for Dorian, though, gently maneuvering his body to spare the mage from the rocky beach digging into his hip.

“Not the best place to take a dive,” Bull's tone was as bland as his face as he carefully scooped Dorian into a bridal carry. The motion forced a pathetic whine from Dorian’s lips as the overall ache in his body was surpassed by the blinding pain in his chest. Horrified at the noise, he tucked his face against the warmth of Bull’s skin. “I probably…sorry, Dorian. I probably broke some of your ribs.” The big hands at Dorian’s back flexed a little, reflex maybe, but Bull didn't go on.

“When I said you could be rougher this is not quite what I meant,” Dorian whispered. He wanted the quip to be louder, light-hearted and suggestive enough to take Bull’s mind off the dreadnaught and Dorian himself almost...well. He got his answer as a small chuckle rumbled through the Bull’s massive chest, rolling through him like the waves over the wet stone on the beach. 

“Shut up, ‘Vint,” Bull murmured, and held Dorian a little tighter to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come prompt me on [Tumblr](http://www.dichotomous-dragon.tumblr.com/) as long as you don't mind a bit of a wait :) I do love prompts!
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	7. Cracky office AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon over on Tumblr like, 5 months ago: did you try turning it off and on again?  
> Sequel to chap 4 :)

The Blue Screen of Death hits at 9:43 PM while Dorian is using the only computer in Skyhold that has the files he needs. The thing is ancient (it still has a floppy disk drive, for Maker’s sake) and it’s not properly networked. Without it, the research he’s trying to complete before Trevelyan's emergency consultation with the reps from G. Warden Inc. tomorrow is doomed. He swears colorfully--safely sequestered in the back of Archives, the only living soul within five floors-- and after a moment, forms a plan of attack. The show must go on, after all. 

Fifteen minutes later Dorian has insulted the computer, its ancestors, Skyhold itself, and every family member and acquaintance of a pleasant gentleman named Bill that he’s never actually met. Dorian has his work laptop, thankfully, and when he opens Lync to check, the status light next to the IT Helpdesk is green on his contacts list.

 _ **Pavus, Dorian**_ : Good evening, ser or madam. (Always best to err on the side of politeness despite the vitriolic nature of the distraction.) I am having issues with one of the computers in Archives.

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Hullo there. Working late huh? 

_**Pavus, Dorian**_ : Indeed.

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Guessing you don’t just want to chat. What seems to be the problem?

 _ **Pavus, Dorian**_ : I’m using SHPC0117343, and as I mentioned, it sits at the back of the room in Archives. The machine blue screened and I am in the middle of some very important research. It’s a 0x0000001a error code.

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Hmm. Doesn’t sound good.

(Dorian drums his fingers on the formica so hard they start to ache while he waits for a more worthwhile reply, the blank screen of the struggling machine staring forlornly back at him with little geometric boxes at the middle. Small sparks skittered away from his neatly-trimmed nails by the time the ‘typing’ indicator flashes up at the bottom of the chat window. He’s actively scowling at more than just the computer, now.)

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Have you tried turning it off and on again?

(Dorian swears so loudly he can hear Vivienne chiding him for it. She lives 26 blocks away in an upscale high-rise in the middle of downtown.)

 _ **Pavus, Dorian**_ : Yes, I rebooted Twice. It errored out both times.

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Hmm.

(Inwardly, Dorian has a moment of silent rage for people who feel the need to share verbal cues via instant message. Clearly, he worked with heathens.)

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Try a hard reboot. Unplug the machine from the power bar, wait at least a minute, then plug it back in and try again.

(Dorian swears again, this time in four languages he knows and two he does not. The power cable is well under the desk he’s working at and protected by a fierce legion of dust bunnies. It looks as though the last time it was cleaned was sometime during the Dragon Age.)

 _ **Pavus, Dorian**_ : Is that really necessary?

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Sometimes static builds up in those old computers. Up to you, but that’s the next step to try.

(To his credit, Dorian only hesitates for a minute or two. He prays to no deity in particular for patience, then he’s on his knees under the desk. With the power cable. And the dust bunnies.)

(...the hard reboot doesn’t work).

 _ **Pavus, Dorian**_ : So THAT didn’t work.

(He’s earned the annoyed emphasis, thank you.)

 ** _Helpdesk_** : Okay. Hmm. If you like, I can come take a look?

(Dorian doesn’t holler. He does not.)

 _ **Pavus, Dorian**_ : Yes, please. This research is dreadfully important.

(He’s still respectful, even if he is cursing the tech as he plops his sculpted arse back onto the computer chair to wait. His grey slacks are fitted, entirely flattering, and bearing several hangers-on from his trip under the table).

 

When the door opens, Dorian barely keeps his ire off his face, spinning in the office chair. He’s frustrated at the timing of the machine biting the bullet and how much work he has yet to complete. His aggression fades to outright surprise at the shape in the doorway, however. All thoughts of the request Trevelyan had made of him trickle to the back of his head.

Of course it’s Bull who enters, wearing a grin a mile wide and pink satin shirt whose seams Dorian can hear screaming from across the room. The big man tips his horns to clear the frame and closes the door, looking all the while like the cat who caught the canary. He’s the size of house and yet, as he lowers himself into the chair beside Dorian, his movements are perfectly measured. Deliberate.

“This the patient?” Bull asks innocently. Dorian makes it another two and a half seconds before he slaps him on one of those mountainous shoulders.

“ _Kaffas_ , you were screwing with me, weren’t you?” He realizes the hole he’s left too late and oh isn't that just--

“If I were screwing with you, Dorian, you’d know it.” Bull accompanies the words with one of those slow blinks of his, his wink-if-only-he-could, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

He watches, perturbed, as Bull reboots the machine a third time, mashing the F12 key in time to select safe mode. It manages to turn all the way on, booting to the trademark featureless desktop. He opens the start menu and then the command prompt, huge fingers expertly plinking away, and in a moment there’s a progress bar that tics to 4% and then begins cycling through seemingly every file name on the computer.

‘“For the moment your machine is toast, bad memory sectors,” Bull says simply. “Checkdisk/r might fix it, but it’s gonna take all night to see.” His voice softens, turning serious. “I am sorry there isn’t anything more I can do for it. Always a crapshoot with these old jalopies.” 

“Wonderful. So much time wasted, then.” He sighs, at first, thinking of thee disappointed look on Trevelyan’s face when he tells her in the morning. She won’t mean to guilt him, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen. “What a fantastic evening,” Dorian growls to himself, kneading his temples with two terse fingers. In that same moment he becomes very aware of Bull’s hand: it’s huge and warm, and it’s just been placed almost demurely on his left thigh. Bull turns to face him, mindful of the horns, and. His teeth flash white against the warm silver tint of his skin, blued from the glow of the laboring computer. A hazy feeling hits Dorian somewhere around the center of his chest, chased hotly by the frantic voice in his head that is insisting Bull has no right to look so good in such poor lighting.

The cut of Bull’s jaw and the disarming warmth in his smile just aren’t fair. When he asks “Who’s to say it can’t be, big guy?” Dorian just blinks owlishly at him, lost.

“What?” but three of Bull’s fingers are on Dorian’s chin as the words leave him, guiding rather than pulling him forward. When their lips meet Dorian gasps; Bull presses closer, hand sliding to cup Dorian’s cheek. They kiss, long and slow, the two of them alone in the cavernous room, as close as the two rolling chairs will physically allow. That central ache in Dorian’s chest sharpens, the shape of it darkening to an image he recognizes. Bull’s thumb strokes across smooth skin, tracing the line of one cheekbone. It’s possible Bull can sense the stuttering emotion that’s assaulting Dorian’s brain because a moment later, he withdraws. He hums a little before he pulls back and smiles at the small noise of complaint Dorian most certainly doesn’t release.

“Alright in there, Dorian?” His voice is far too soft, as gentle as the smile-lines that frame his remaining eye. 

“Yes, damn you,” Dorian scolds, “so long as you get back here and kiss me properly.” The skin around Bull’s eye crinkles further as his smile broadens. The chairs make protesting noises at the same time Dorian does. He’s swept into impossibly sturdy arms and lifted, beige tiles falling away as he instead finds himself pressed against the wall. Instinctively he wraps his legs around Bull’s waist, eyes to eye with him and breathless from both the position and the absurdly saccharine look on Bull’s face. Dorian tilts up his chin. “Don’t get cocky, you great lummox--” but the rest is lost. Probably for the best, his snarky tone is rather lackluster as he says it.

Bull is kissing him again, lips pressing perfectly against his own. His chest is warm through the pink fabric and his own shirt, so much warmer than the cool drywall Dorian is sandwiched against. The only thing hotter are Bull’s hands cupped firmly under his ass, forearms supporting his thighs. That, and that ever-deepening feeling in Dorian’s chest.

It’s minutes before Bull breaks the kiss, nipping his way all along Dorian’s jaw to nibble on one earlobe. The action makes Dorian squirm, a mix between a tickle and a jolt of electricity that rockets down his spine. He notices the movement of his hands then: trailing along Bull’s jaw, tracing the muscles that connect neck to shoulder, fiddling with the tip of one pointed ear. That last earns him a shudder out of Bull which truly, is not a poor price to pay for being desperate to touch every inch of the man’s skin he can reach.

“I should send you under the table to war with the vile creatures in residence there,” Dorian pants after a moment. He sounds properly aloof, though perhaps only in his head, judging by Bull’s laugh. “Static build-up. Really.”

“Hey, that’s an actual thing,” Bull retorts, flexing his hands. Dorian can feel the exact location of all eight fingertips, searing against the flesh of his arse like a brand. “Happens with routers all the time. Besides, I can think of better things for you to do on your knees under a desk,” Bull suggests, waggling his brows. Dorian’s answering laugh is breathless. 

“Promises,” he manages, and Bull’s chuckle rumbles up, echoing through Dorian from the places they’re pressed together. It’s a cavernous, addicting sound.

“I’ll make good, if you like. Payment for making you crawl around on the floor.” Dorian considers, really considers, and glances around. They are alone, surrounded by two dozen shelves holding old Skyhold reference material and shielded by both the remoteness of the location and the lateness of the hour. The hesitation isn’t lost on Bull. The kiss he presses to Dorian’s lips is intent and heavy, reassurance made physical in the gesture. “No cameras in here, and I promise I won’t leave a mess.” Another of those absurd winks. “You give them enough OT, big guy. A little break won’t hurt.” He mouths at Dorian’s neck, grinning against the skin when the mage lets his head thunk back against the wall.

“I...suppose I could be persuaded.” One of Bull’s hands slides over, taking his weight and cradling his forearm under Dorian’s ass. The change in position frees Bull’s other hand and also presses them more firmly together, body to body save their clothing in between. A large hand drags up Dorian’s side and it’s all he can do not to sigh aloud. “Yes, yes, alright, ah, you have sufficiently made your case!” Dorian lifts his head, lets it tip forward to rest on Bull’s shoulder.

Bull moves more quickly than Dorian can react, kissing him voraciously even as he transports the both of them back towards the table. Bull gestures, sweeping at something Dorian can’t see, but he runs out of time to think about it when Bull plops him down on the table like a stack of old files. He absolutely doesn’t squawk.

Dorian looks down around him, at the tabletop under his arse. Bull dusts his hand on his slacks, lowering himself to his knees on the tiles. He grunts a little--the change in elevation pains him, it seems--though Bull banishes the grimace without a word. It is past the surge of warmth that Bull’s going to hurt tomorrow for his sake, that Dorian notes that the surface under his arse is oddly clean. “Did you…?” 

“Yeah,” Bull smiles. He’s at the perfect height as he kneels; Dorian swallows at the sight. Those big hands of his wrap around Dorian’s hips and tug him closer to the edge. His legs dangle off the table, Bull between them. “Didn’t figure you’d appreciate me getting you dirtier,” and damn it, the heat that look stirs in Dorian’s gut ought to be illegal.

Bull is careful of damaging his clothes and that in and of itself is something, but Dorian says: “As if you care a whit about cleanliness.” He doesn’t know why he’s still talking...well. He knows why, but he shouldn’t be, because as Bull finally gets his pants open and reaches into them, Dorian’s words trail off into an embarrassing gasp. 

“Maybe not, but I care about you,” Bull corrects. He doesn’t falter as he says it, doesn’t slow down teasing two fingers into the fly of Dorian’s boxer briefs. Dorian, for his part, locks up. His mind screeches to a halt; that feeling in his chest constricts and his lungs stop working. The only thought left in his head is whether Bull realizes what he’s just said. A moment passes, though, and as Bull gives his half-hard cock a gentle squeeze, Dorian loses his train of thought to the thrill of touch. Arousal rolls up his core like a tidal wave as Bull parts scarred lips and draws Dorian’s into his mouth, lapping at the tip with his tongue. The invasive things--the warmth and the confusion and the Maker-be-damned fondness--all of them are swept away as Bull hollows out his cheeks and starts moving.

“Bull... _Maker_ …” Dorian moans, one hand fumbling for a grip on one of Bull’s horns as he sinks his teeth into the meat of the other. He cannot simply let the wanton noises out, not even as Bull works him within an inch of his life. Flashes of light dot Dorian’s vision; Bull just bobs his head and hums, indifferent to the plight he causes, sucking for all he’s worth. 

There is no lack of finesse to the qunari’s movements, no failing for which Dorian can tease him later. Everything about Bull’s mouth is wet, warm perfection, as are the small caresses he teases Dorian with. Those big fingers light along the creases where Dorian’s torso meets his thighs, one drifting lower. Dorian’s answering groan is loud even around his hand. 

“Bull, I---slow down, I--” but Bull just sucks harder, flicks his tongue along Dorian’s length, and fondles his balls through the soft fabric of his underwear. It’s enough to carry Dorian over.

After, Dorian slumps forward, his grip on Bull’s rack the only thing keeping him upright. He tries not to shiver as Bull licks him clean and tucks him away, fastening his slacks delicately. Always so careful.

“You are a dreadful man,” Dorian says blearily; Bull’s answering laugh is full-throated and shameless.

“Not even a lummox? You’re slipping, big guy,” and as he says it, he presses a sweet little kiss to Dorian’s cheek, and rises. “Buy you a drink?”

“Ever the scourge.”  
\-----

Trevelyan’s meeting is cancelled by 10:15 AM the next day. It turns out it was meant to be a teleconference, and the folks from the Wardens may have exaggerated the necessity of an immediate response. When Dorian asks why Trevelyan cancelled to begin with, they merely shrug and reply, “Localized server issues. Couldn’t keep the connection up, and then we find out the bastards didn’t need us anyway.” They offer Dorian lunch as a thank you and an apology for his efforts, and he never even has to tell them he hadn’t finished.

Dorian gets back to his desk around 1:30, where he finds an external hard drive and a baby pink sticky note.

_Got the jalopy running and made a backup for you just in case it craps out again.  
Pesky technology, huh?_

The scrawl is familiar. Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), Dorian thinks of Bull and grins.


	8. THE DEPRESSING AU (with a not-so-depressing ending. I hope.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TheLadyLily is a goddamn con artist who tore my damn heart out tonight with an AU where Dorian is murdered and Detective!Bull falls in love with a man he never met while trying to catch his killer.
> 
> I can't handle long-term sads and this was my attempt at a resolution that didn't make me sob my bitter little eyeballs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for major character death--sort of.

It didn't take Bull long to realize he was dead.

It was three years later when he caught a bullet. He assumes that's what it was, since he didn't recall any pain. Waking up amidst a bunch of hazy green shit in indecipherable fog? Yeah. Probably a bullet; definitely dead.

He wandered through what must be the Fade (or the Void, shit, he didn't know...he'd always been an agnostic at best and the Qun, when he followed it, didn't account for crap like this), eye searching the vast nothingness only to find more of the same. There was something vaguely resembling a path underfoot so he followed it, unsure where he was going. He eventually caught sight of a shadow in the distance, eye straining to discern the shape as he closed the distance.

A caramel skinned man in a dark suit was reclining against a bit of wall, the only construct visible in the mist.

"I'm not happy to see you," the man said. He had a voice like velvet, smooth and cultured, and a face Bull had only seen on a photo on his desk. "I should rather have liked you to have a long, full life, after trying so hard to see justice done." His voice caught and he cleared his throat, straightening to stand and look up into Bull's face. His eyes were the color of sterling silver tarnished dark from a death come too early. "It was kind of you, going to such lengths. I--" Dorian--because it **was** Dorian--fell silent as Bull leaned down and pressed their lips together.

Time was meaningless; rather for the better, as Bull had no idea how long they held there, so gently intertwined. When he finally pulled back he was pleased to see that Dorian's cheeks were pink under his swarthiness. Not _that_ dead, then.

"I should rather have preferred meeting you _before_ I met my untimely end," the beautiful man said softly. 

"Ditto," Bull answered, "-but makin' up for lost time isn't so bad." Dorian laughed until the press of Bull's lips made him fall silent, laments lost into sweet, wordless sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame Lily! I know I do!  
> (PS she played me...her ending ended up _happier_ than mine but because she strung me along for like, TWO HOURS, so here you go. Share my pain!)


	9. A Persistent Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything, everything is awash in red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally from Tumblr, though I can't remember the prompt. Or writing the fic at all.
> 
> Warnings for abstract/poetic mentions of blood.  
> ...Rather a lot of it.

The are many shades of red--the searing ruby of the lyrium, the bright crimson of fresh wounds, the dark red-black of old blood--but it all washes into sameness in the boundless depths of his fury. The light in the Bull's eye, the pitch of his roars as he swings, the cries of every templar he crushes with his maul as he tears through their ranks. The scene around him swirls past in featureless, fragmented frames; his actions are a stream of desperate destruction and frantic, murderous vengeance stained bloody. He can't feel the pain any longer, not the little wounds or the big ones, nothing save the singing of his rage, the burn of battle, and the empty pull of the hole in his chest, carved there by the absence of a sarcastic mage. 

Everything else is red.

The Bull makes it into the stronghold, fights his way through more men than he can count until he's descended underground. He doesn't see the implements on the nearby tables; can't smell the lingering, telling reek of burnt flesh over the stink of iron in his nostrils. He doesn't hear the mocking of the men as they surround him, can't hear the taunts of what they've done over the rush of blood in his ears.

The reaver madness is perfect for times like these, mowing through horror that would otherwise make him snap. Instead, he just keeps pressing onward. When the men lunge at him he cuts them down, bashes helmets and skulls and metal bars with equal vehemence. They die too quickly, their blood mixing with his own in abstract swaths splashed across the stone. Onward, deeper.

It's then that the Bull surfaces from the bloodlust, lucid enough to recognize he's found what ( _who_ ) he's looking for, but he doesn't allow the madness to ebb completely. If he did, he'd have to process the scene in front of him, truly taking in the crimson stains on the fabric of ruined robes. He'd have to fully grasp the damage they've done to his mage in a matter of hours, damage that will take far longer to fix. He'd have to see the cuts and the bruises and the burns and the Bull knows he can't handle that, not yet. Not until his heart is free of this place.

It is too soon to say if ‘free’ equates to ‘safe.’

So instead the Bull hauls his anger bodily back, forcing it inside him 'til his hands are steady, the shaking contained to his body proper. He tries to listen outside for the Inquisitor and the others and not to the whimpering cries from before him; he's desperate for the sounds of their enemies dying, to know they're paying for the grizzly scene in this cell. It's quiet, though, so he lets the worry slip, sloughed off like so many other things.

The Bull puts a belt knife to the ropes holding Dorian in place. He does not choke as his heart sobs and cringes away from his touch, no. He does not swallow down bile as he pauses to hold the man still, afraid to do more damage. He absolutely does not wonder what Dorian has been through, that his normally proud beauty has crumpled into something withered and small, battered and broken. He is desperately afraid that he already knows. 

The blade knicks the skin of Dorian's throat and his whimpering sounds become desperate begging, a broken litany of _"Please, please_." The Bull can't tell if Dorian is begging for the knife to take the collar or his life. He takes the former before the murderous shake in his limbs returns, gathering Dorian’s trembling body against his own. He feels impossibly cold fingers against his chest, the chilled flesh cool through the burning heat he's wearing like a cloak. It's something, that the bloodied hands hold tight to the leather of his harness in a gesture that is painfully familiar.

He has his heart back, even if they're both in pieces. For the moment it has to be enough.

The red washes the rest away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this might be the best thing I've ever written. Idk how to feel about that, but it remains one of very few pieces that I like every time I read it.


	10. The Visiting Magister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A magister visits Skyhold. Bull is suitably intrigued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one I forgot xD
> 
> My first ever prompt on the DAKM was very simply for some Mae and Dorian fluff. I didn't get it, so I did it myself (or rather, started it myself and forgot where I was going partway through. I have a lot of WIPs, is what I'm saying here, people).

The Chargers filed into the Herald's Rest, as raucous as they ever were; more so, as today they were returning victorious from a particularly hairy mission. Literally. Giants, three of them, covered in the stuff, had wandered too close to a settlement outside the Hinterlands. The Chargers had lead the campaign against the things and had just returned to Skyhold for some much-deserved rest. Also booze. Lots and lots of booze.

The Iron Bull lagged slightly behind his men, taking in the mostly empty bar. Old Ben-Hassrath habits, he supposed. Cabot gave him a nod as he set to serving the laughing, roaring beast that was the core group of the Bull's Chargers. The big Qunari could not keep a satisfied grin off his face, content that his men couldn't see it.

He'd do it again. However difficult it got, he'd take them over the Qun any day.

That was when the figure in the corner caught his eye. The Bull didn't make any change in his routine--toss Cabot a sovereign, head over to his chair along the wall, nod at Krem to let him know he was good--but he watched the figure nonetheless. Casually, enough that no one could tell he was doing it. He could not see much, as it was.

"Cabot, this ale is piss warm," The Bull called, taking a swig of his swill.

"Allow me." The newcomer had moved quickly and now stood in front of him, a heavy, pale blue cloak swept back from a pair of slim shoulders. Bull quirked an eyebrow, taking her in (formally, now, since she was in front of him) before holding out his mug. She was tall, blond hair about chin length and styled in loose, wavy ringlets about her face. The woman tilted her chin up, a gesture both self-certain and familiar. Her pointer finger extended to his mug. Fractals of frost spread, coiling intricate designs. When Bull took another long swallow the ale was pleasantly cool, not quite cold, and far more refreshing. She watched his throat bob as he drank and Bull, ever a showman, flexed a little more than was necessary as he set his mug down shifted in his seat.

"Thanks. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

That earned him a satisfied smirk and the shushing of fine fabric as the woman took a seat to Bull’s side. She glanced around the bar, at the Chargers and a smattering of Inquisition soldiers making merry. "I had heard there was a Tevinter Altus here. I’d have thought to find him near the closest source of alcohol, but...perhaps not.” A little note of something dark slipped into her expression but was gone just as quickly. She was very good, Bull realized. “Must be very popular, that one."

"Yeah," the Qunari allowed himself a small chuckle. The woman glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, "-you 'Vints are _real_ popular this far south. Especially with the thousand-year-magister shitting everything up."

"Knew all along, did you?" Her eyebrows were up, a small smile on her lips. Impressed, then, and allowing it to show. Odd play for a ‘Vint, were he not pretty sure he already knew who this one was.

"Accent is a bit hard to miss. Vyrantium?" Bull replied conversationally.

"Qarinus." The Bull grumbled just a little at that.

"So glad the victorious are hailed so graciously." Bull was deep in discussion with the blonde ‘Vint when he heard the eloquent scoff. The voice was rich and altogether offended. The Bull felt a grin break as he hauled his not inconsiderate bulk to his feet. "Tell me, to what do I owe the offense? Have I been gone so long you’ve gone senile and forgotten my existence altogether?” Mae rolled her eyes dramatically, though the look was altogether fond. She was hidden from Dorian’s view by a well-placed pillar and Bull fully intended to make use of that.

"Hey there 'Vint."

" _Hey there?_ Two weeks in the wet fighting for my life and the freedom of the free world and all I merit is a--mmmpphh!" Dorian's protests were quickly muffled as he found his lips pressed firmly to Bull's, lithe form pulled in close to the Tal-Vashoth's much larger one. The Chargers let out a tumult that was equal parts cheers and groans as their boss welcomed his heart home properly. Dorian growled against the kiss at first, thrashing like a cat in a sack. He shoved against massive arms to no avail, squirming his body even though hips lips didn’t leave Bull’s. Bull could just see the telling spread of a blush across Dorian’s attractive features; it took but another moment of struggling before Dorian melted with a final squawk at the indignity, a sigh escaping his nose. Bull felt a clever hand trace one of his ears, earning Dorian a little shudder as the mage slung his other arm around Bull’s neck.

“You are an incorrigible beast,” Dorian relaxed into Bull’s hold, once he had gotten over that feeling that the entire bar was waiting to burn him at the stake for being too bold. Old habits.

“You like it,” Bull grinned, leaning down just far enough to nuzzle Dorian’s ear. That earned him a little shudder of his own along with Dorian’s long-suffering sigh.

"My my, whatever would your father say?"

Dorian stiffened. Bull frowned as he felt the mage's hands knot into fists, stepping back from his very sudden rigidity of posture. He watched Dorian’s eyes narrow then widen, first in suspicion, then in surprise.

"...Mae?" She stood, arms swept wide as she offered him a gracious bow, all fluttering blue fabric and blonde curls. 

"The very same. Am I allowed to hug you? Such things seem common to you in the South, it would seem. I should like to blend in." Dorian's cheeks colored again, a dusting of crimson beneath the caramel of his skin. Mae's laugh was kind, though, and he swept over to her. With an elegant bow Dorian folded himself in half, kissing Mae’s hand (while Bull ogled his ass). She caught him at it, too, narrowing her eyes before pulling Dorian up straight into an embrace. “I apologize for opening with thoughts of Halward, that was most unkind of me. It does seem you have made a friend you neglected to tell me about.” Bull’s grin was wide and unapologetic; Dorian sighed with his entire self, offering his arm to Maevaris, the picture of resignation.

“An affront for which you will make me pay, no doubt,” he suggested.

“Spectacularly,” Mae agreed, tossing a wink to Bull. “You may start with getting me a glass of wine and telling me about this dashing young man.”


End file.
